


Lock the Door and Turn the Lights Down Low

by sardonicsmiley



Series: Hell 'Verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Language, M/M, Porn With Plot, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-25
Updated: 2008-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-02 21:29:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21168152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sardonicsmiley/pseuds/sardonicsmiley
Summary: Dean's mouth is burning hot slick when Sam covers it with his, swallowing his brother's voice, his brother breath down into himself. He chases the sounds his brother is making back into his mouth, licking biting needing. And through it Dean pulls his hair, holds onto him so tightly it's close to painful.





	Lock the Door and Turn the Lights Down Low

**Author's Note:**

> Written for some awesome artwork, which I would include but my crap computer skillz prevent me, by opprobrium for my Hell!Verse. The request was a schmoopy fic with Dean and Sam set in the Hell!Verse. Ended up on the porn-y side...and without any Impala. Whoops! It was all Sam's fault; he didn't want to leave the motel room! I tried to tell him to go to the car and he wouldn't do it! Hope it still works. Set sometime during chapter seven of The Walking Wounded.
> 
> Beta: marysue007 She who owns my p0rn writing soul.

* * *

Sometimes Sam wakes up, lost in dreams and nightmares, and can't remember what's true and what's not. So much has happened that in that blurry place between asleep and awake sometimes he thinks maybe it was all a nightmare. Maybe he never went to Kingsville, Texas. Maybe he never lost Dean for months in little more than a walking coma. Maybe the seizures and burns were all just a figment of his imagination.

Those nights, like tonight, he'll just lay, still, holding his breath, trying to decide if Dean's skin is hot, or cold, if he's shaking, if he's breathing. He always ends up wrapping his hand around Dean's wrist, searching for his pulse, making absolutely certain he's still alive, needing that reassurance.

Tonight Dean stirs against him when that happens, twisting around in Sam's arms and grumbling into the still, dark air of the motel du jour, "You're not breathing."

The air he sucks down into his lungs is thick and humid, sour with nicotine even though they had requested a non-smoking room. His heart is pounding too loud in his chest, oxygen starved, and he breathes heavy, feels Dean push against him, trying to roll him onto his back. Dean's hands are warm against his chest and shoulders, his voice sharp, "What the fuck weren't you breathing for?"

Sam shrugs, finds Dean's face in the dark with his hands, curls his fingers around the back of Dean's skull, feeling short stubble scrape across his palms. His brother is talking, moving, is alive, and the relief that never really fades surges to the forefront of Sam's mind. Dean is alright, Dean is back with him, even if he is not quite the same as he once was.

Dean slides back down against Sam's chest, sprawling across him, breath tickling across Sam's neck and collarbone. This closeness is something new for them. Never mind that the first time Dean jerked him off Sam was twelve, that they'd been sinning often and creatively since then, they had never stayed cuddled together afterwards. There had been John to think of before, and they'd needed their space, back then.

Now they have no limits between them, the lines that separate them blurring further with each passing day. Sam likes it, not sure if he should or not, Dean's willingness to touch, hold, sleep with him. It is a comfort that he has always yearned for, and revels in now.

Dean breaks the soft silence that has fallen around them, "Well don't do it again."

The skin over Dean's spine is rough, crisscrossed with scars that Sam runs his fingers up and down. Dean sighs, melts at the touch, and Sam feels himself grinning involuntarily. It's hard to reconcile Dean as he was for months, his body an empty shell, wracked by seizures, to the Dean curled in bed with him now, strong and frighteningly cold sometimes. But through it all rubbing down Dean's spine has soothed him, calmed him.

The press of Dean's lips are warm and wet against his chest, Dean's hands smooth and hot with the fever that never goes away, sliding up his sides, back down, up again. Their legs are all tangled together, with each other and the sheets, and Sam tries to free himself with limited success. Instead he presses his hand into the small of Dean's back, pulls him close and rolls them both.

The side of the bed was closer than he'd anticipated, and for a heartbeat he and Dean hang out over empty air, fighting a losing battle with gravity. Dean's got an arm around his shoulders, the other extending automatically towards the ground to try to catch them. They stop, suspended in midair, before Dean's fingers even brush the filthy carpet below.

Dean stares up at him, eyes wide, right eye aglow now, painting the small room with silver and gold light. His hands shimmer as well, up his arms, strands of otherworldly light up to his shoulders. The sheets drag on the ground below them, still tangled around their legs. Dean's voice is low, dropped octaves since the last time he spoke, "This is a neat trick, Sammy."

Sam smiles, pleased with himself for pleasing Dean, lowers his mouth to his brother's and kisses him. Dean laughs into his mouth, one hand coming up to tangle in Sam's hair, the other splayed across Sam's back, fingers curving and dragging across the expanse of skin open and available to exploration. Sam wonders, while plundering Dean's mouth, if he can keep them suspended while they fuck.

He keeps his eyes open, wanting to see the light dancing across Dean's skin, ethereal, unbelievable.

Their legs are still tangled, but Dean manages to wrap a leg around Sam's waist anyway, muscles hard and strong beneath his skin. They're sweating already, in the stuffy room, slick skin sliding, slipping. Sam decides that he can keep them in the air, that he will if it's the last thing he does.

He runs a hand down Dean's spine, the other gripping at Dean's hip, sliding around to his ass. Dean arches against him, arches in the nothingness they're suspended in, curls his body up and Sam gasps, because, God... He sucks Dean's bottom lip into his mouth, reaching for Dean's leg not yet wrapped around his waist and dragging it up, wrapping it around his own back as best he can. Dean gets the idea after a second, slides his sweat slick leg up across Sam's hips, hooks his ankles.

Sam curls his own legs up, till their bodies are twined so tightly together that he can't tell where he starts and Dean ends, in the middle of the air. Dean's erection is trapped between them, his own pressing hard into the side of Dean's inner thigh.

Dean rocks against him, sliding his mouth away from Sam's, leaving a trail of messy kisses across his cheek and jaw, mouth finding the shell of Sam's ear, breath hot and wet. Sam can feel his fingers twitch against all Dean's firm expanse of skin, pulling him closer, needing him as close as possible. Dean's voice is a rough, low growl, right into Sam's ear that shoots straight down his spine, "C'mon, Sammy, c'mon."

The answering rumble it rips from Sam's chest is louder than it should be, echoes through their room.

Their bag is across the room, and Sam spares a bit of attention to it, rips it open on the seams with this power in his chest. There's lube in one of the pockets, with their toothpaste and soap and he flings clothes and weapons across the room, looking for it. And then he has it, and it's spinning across the empty air into his waiting hand.

Dean is still moving against him, so much skin, burning hot and sweat slick, soft groans slipping from his throat and tearing what precious little is left of Sam's self control to pieces. He's trembling with the effort of keeping them in the air, with the pressure of holding himself back.

His hands shake as he fumbles with the bottle, and he barely manages to coat his fingers before he drops it.

Dean's fingers, tangled in Sam's hair, jerks his head back and Dean bites hard into the skin over Sam's collarbone, when Sam pushes a finger into him. They drop inches towards the ground before Sam catches them, breathing sharp and shaky. Dean is licking softly at the bite that either broke skin or came very close to it, hips jerking like he can't stop them.

They're bobbing up and down in the air, as Sam loses and gains control of himself. He stretches Dean as fast as he can, forcing another finger, and another, and another, because he knows how big he is, and won't risk hurting his brother.

Dean growls, between bites and licks spread across Sam's neck and chest, "Do it, Sammy, c'mon, c'mon."

Sam groans, twists and they end up flipping slightly, so they're sideways in the air. And then he braces himself against Dean's hard chest and back, twisting and pushing himself into his brother's body, like it's the most natural and perfect thing in the world. Dean's hands close around Sam's shoulders, back, hard enough to leave bruises.

Sam doesn't mind, he barely even notices, lost in his brother, trying to remember how to breathe, how to keep his heart beating. It takes him long seconds to realize his brother is talking, thick low words, "Oh fuck, Sam, oh fuck, fuck, fuck, Sammy, Sammy, oh fuck-"

Dean's mouth is burning hot slick when Sam covers it with his, swallowing his brother's voice, his brother breath down into himself. He chases the sounds his brother is making back into his mouth, licking biting needing. And through it Dean pulls his hair, holds onto him so tightly it's close to painful.

Sam finally gets enough control of himself to dare movement, to slide his hips back, to roll-push himself back into that tight heat that he just needs so bad. They spin, tumble sideways and up, and he barely notices beyond the rush of air over his skin, beyond Dean's surprised and thrilled laughter dancing down his throat.

They're not really kissing anymore, but he can't seem to move his mouth from Dean's. Both of them are breathing hard, panting, lips and teeth clashing against each other as they twist and move. Sam can hear his voice, low, so low in the dark of the room, "Like that?"

"Fuck, Sammy, God, can't-can't-need, c'mon-"

Out, in, and Dean groaning, trying to force a hand between their sweat slick stomachs, and Sam can feel the quiver in his brother's skin. Sam takes pity on him, slides one of his own hands off of Dean's hip where he can already see the bruises forming, fists it around his brother's cock and Dean's head jerks back so sharp and sudden that his chin catches Sam in the mouth.

Blood bursts salty and hot in his mouth, and he jerks forward, pressing his mouth to Dean's neck, smearing blood and spit over all the straining skin. His. His. His.

He finds a rhythm for his hips, finally, and then Dean moves with him, angling his hips back and then snapping them forward. Sam's teeth close involuntarily on Dean's pulse point, and he feels them slam upward, a half second later feels Dean's blood slip sliding into his mouth even as Dean's back crashes into the ceiling, inches from the light.

There is a flash of light without heat, so bright that for a second Sam can see nothing but an infinity of white. It fades after a moment, half as bright, pulsing with each beat of Dean's heart. Dean glows, like white hot metal pulled from the flames of an inferno.

Their blood and sweat mix together in Sam's mouth, slide around Dean's neck, drip down onto Sam's skin and dance across it in turn on the way to the ground. Sam imagines that he can hear drops of it hitting the carpet so far below. Dean slams his head back against the ceiling, hands scrambling desperately at Sam's skin, groaning, "-fuckfuckfuckfuck-" over and over and over again. Sam can feel a hot spill of liquid across his hand trapped between them, relaxes his grip on Dean's cock.

Sam braces a hand by Dean's head, the dimpled plaster of the ceiling digging into his palm, and buries his face in the side of his brother's neck. His hips jerk, rhythm lost since their collision with the ceiling, nothing but deep desperate movements. He sucks on his brother's glowing skin, tasting salt and bitter soap and what might be smoke. Hears himself growl out, "Don't you ever leave me. Not ever. Not ever, Dean, say it."

Instead Dean says, "Come for me, baby brother," and he does.

The world goes white behind his eyelids, narrows to Dean's body above, beneath, his. He tries to breath and barely manages it, can feel himself holding onto his brother's skin. Feels like a puppet with its strings cut, lost in a maelstrom such as the world has never seen with Dean his only lifeline back to a world with stability. He hears the shatter of glass as the light beside them explodes, hears car alarms suddenly blaring in the parking lot. Doesn't matter.

They drop, and he has nothing left to stop them with. Land with a bang that he's sure must echo through the entire motel, and the pain of hitting the ground with Dean on top of him has him coughing, trying to roll onto his side. Carpet should not be that hard.

Dean is squirming off of him, and Sam whimpers at the loss, but his brother is only grabbing the comforter off their bed and dragging it over their bodies. It's a good idea. Sam is fairly sure he could not make it back onto the bed at this point. Dean sprawls half on top of him, heavy and possessive, kisses Sam's jaw and then lets his head fall to rest against his brother's shoulder. He rumbles, "That was fucking awesome."

Sam laughs, involuntarily, feels his ribs protest, still aching from the fall. Manages to drag one hand up to cup the back of his brother's neck, protective, reassuring himself. "Thanks." His eyelids are so heavy now; he's ready to sink back to sleep even if they should be getting up, going back on the hunt. There's so many evil things to kill and it's only going to get worse.

"Guess that answers the question of whether Clark Kent or Bruce Wayne would be the better lay."

Sam's eyes snap back open, "What?" Dean talks more now than he used to, at least to Sam. Sometimes Sam thinks this is because his brother rarely talks to other people at all anymore. But Sam is a sleep after sex type of man, and superheroes are definitely not a subject that he would be expecting.

Dean shrugs, mumbles into Sam's chest, "Flying sex. Whoosh!" Sam sniggers, rubs his thumb over the ridges of Dean's vertebrae, lets himself drift back towards sleep. The carpet is already itchy over his back, but he doesn't feel like moving, and it won't matter once he's asleep anyway.

He's sunk into that blurry place right before dreams when Dean speaks again, voice so whisper soft that Sam wonders if he was even supposed to hear it, "Not ever, Sammy. Me and you till there's nothing else."


End file.
